Protected by the Knight's Proposal

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘I do,’ Lachlan replied. ‘I need to go home, to my uncle and his family. They live to the north of Exancaester. They will be anxious to see me; I have been away in France for a long time. And then, after that...’ His voice dropped away. He had no wish to tell of the details of what would follow. The long ride north, the battle that must be carried out in order to avenge his family. It needed to be done for him to have any chance at a proper life. A life without torment.

  ‘Then why don’t you go?’ Cecily studied Lachlan’s craggy profile, the bright fronds of his hair sharply contrasted with his blue tunic and cloak, the dulling of his gimlet eyes. So he had family, of sorts, she thought. She wondered what had happened to his parents. ‘These two can take me to the King.’ She flung her arm out in the direction of the two knights. ‘At least that way I would have had a chance of escaping.’

  ‘Don’t you think I don’t know that? Listen, Cecily, it’s much safer this way. Going on the run is not a good idea. Especially with the mood that Simon is in.’

  ‘So you are taking me to the King,’ she cried, outraged. ‘My God, I thought you were going to help me!’

  ‘Shhh, keep your voice down. It’s better this way. Believe me when I say that I’m trying to protect you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need your protection,’ Cecily replied huffily. ‘I can look after myself. I’ve done it for long enough.’

  He heard the note of loneliness echo through her tone and wondered at it. She had been surrounded by people at the castle, but who among them had actually cared for her? Looked out for her? Not her family, that much was certain. Not her husband, either, from what he had heard.

  ‘Why don’t you let someone look after you for a change?’

  Her head whipped around, her green eyes blazing. ‘Who do you suggest? Because I cannot think of one person who would do that for me.’

  I can, he thought.

  He wanted to be there when she met the King. He wanted to be with her. What did he think he was going to do? Plead for her innocence, beg for leniency? Yes, he would do all those things, and more, because he had no wish to see her die, whatever crime she had committed.

  * * *

  They rode all day. Mile after mile, trapped between the knights at the front and Lachlan either beside or behind her, Cecily plodded along on her little grey mare, her limbs gradually solidifying in the icy weather. At some point, Lachlan had handed her a bread roll and she had clutched at it clumsily, forcing her arm to lift the food to her mouth, chewing methodically.

  On leaving Okeforde, riding through the town, they had followed a track up on to the moor, a vast expanse of high grassland, where the wind had been strong and fierce, tearing at their cloaks and the horses’ tails. Tussocks of grass, bleached to a pale straw colour, were flattened into the soggy ground. It had been impossible to speak or hold a conversation. Words tore away before they had a chance to be heard. The path, reduced to a narrow trail of bare earth, had stretched away into the distance, edges softened with clumps of bright yellow gorse and heather.

  Now, bulky grey clouds gathered to the east, obscuring any memory of the sunlit morning. The light became shadowed, crepuscular. They were following a path along a river, the water tumbling haphazardly against the stones. Oak trees gathered around them, the bare, skeletal branches rising up the valley sides, frilling against the grey sky. Beneath the trees, the light was even darker. The air was thick with the smell of dead leaves, of mushrooms and fungus, a dead, rotting scent.

  Cecily drew her hands inside her cloak, her fingers unable to work the reins any longer. Her limbs were numb, frozen solid into the one position; it was uncomfortable even to move, for if she moved, the claws of ice seemed only to dig deeper, prise open the very core of her. With every step of her horse, energy leached from her, leaving her exhausted, weak. Desperately, she tried to clench her thigh muscles, to stay upright in the saddle. Were they ever going to stop and rest, these men?

  A drop of ice hit Cecily’s cheek, then another. Sleet rather than snow, a slushy flake, melting swiftly on her heated cheek, then running down her chin. She licked the droplets away, relishing the cool, fresh taste. The swollen, saturated clouds released a burst of icy rain and the water coursed down, soaking her face, her woollen cloak, her full skirts. The needling rain scoured her skin, a raw, painful kiss. Yet she relished the sensation, for surely, surely, these men would stop now and take some shelter? She twisted round in her saddle, the material of her wet sleeve dragging uncomfortably on her shoulder, and squinted at Lachlan, half-closing her eyes to protect them from the sluicing rain.

  ‘Shall we stop?’ Her lips moved awkwardly with the cold. ‘We will be soaked through!’

  Lachlan narrowed his eyes. The rain dripped off the carved angles of his square-cut jaw. ‘No.’ His answer was rough, abrupt, grinding into her, a drumbeat of doom. ‘We have to keep riding until we lose the light, otherwise it will take us two days to Exancaester, rather than one.’

  ‘I don’t care if we take all year!’ Cecily replied, irritated by his censorious tone. Her teeth chattered. ‘I want to stop now. I’m freezing and I need to warm up!’ Over her head, the branches swayed and clacked together. A shower of brown leaves spiralled down, spinning around her head.

  Lachlan steered his horse’s nose on a level with her own. His warm breath tipped out into the rain-soaked air. ‘It’s not long now until sunset. Your horse is still fresh.’ Drops of sleet landed on the dark wool of his cloak, white flakes that melted instantly to leave wet, irregular circles. ‘Stop trying to delay us,’ he muttered. ‘Go on now.’

  Angry at his commandeering response, Cecily wrenched back round in the saddle. So that was it. He thought she was pretending, a deliberate attempt to slow up the journey. An uncontrollable shivering gripped her body, rippling violently through her flesh.

  Time condensed, then dissipated. Sleet fell sporadically; a relentless, grinding cold pierced her bones. Snared in a frozen web, Cecily lost track of time, scarcely noticing as the sky gradually inched into twilight. She pinned her eyes to the shiny chainmail of the knights in front, the flexing metal skin acting like a beacon, a lodestone, to hold her on her horse, to keep her awake. Her little mare was trustworthy and would follow the horses without any instruction from her mistress. All Cecily needed to do was stay in the saddle.

  Her eyelids fluttered and drooped; Christ, how she longed for sleep. That wonderful soporific state where she could be warm and safe. A lightness danced in her head, lifting the heavy weight of her shoulders from the wretched lump of icy flesh that formed her body. Awareness dropped away; she swayed violently, then caught herself in time, lurching upright once more.

  ‘Cecily!’ a voice shouted. The sound seemed muffled, as if reaching her ears through a padded cloth.

  ‘Hey! My lord, watch out!’

  Dimly, Cecily heard the warning before she fell. A slow graceful plunge, pitching forward out of the saddle, senseless, unable to save herself. Flakes of sleet, sparkling like gemstones, spun before her vision. But before she hit the ground, she was scooped up, snared in strong arms that held her tight.

  * * *

  Lachlan cursed as he swept Cecily’s slight figure up against his chest, one arm beneath her hips, gathering up the bulky layers of her skirts, the other cradling her slim back. Thank God he had been quick enough to catch her. He had been watching her anyway, watching the elegant tilt of her slim figure in the saddle, and saw her swaying. He had known she was about to fall, even before the young knight alerted him to the fact.

  Her head rolled back against his upper arm, her eyes half-open, but hazy with confusion. Her lips were blue. Her cheeks held the translucent luminosity of a pearl, deathly white. She had become too cold. She had told him that she wanted to stop riding and had he listened? Nay, he had thought she was shamming, annoyed with him for taking her to the King. He had pushed her too far.

  ‘Ce
cily, wake up!’ His harsh tone jagged into her, jolting her back into full consciousness. What was she doing, lying in Lachlan’s arms? Her teeth knocked together with the cold. She touched one confused hand to her head, then pushed a long straggling tendril out of her eyes. The movement seemed to take a great deal of effort and she let her arm fall slackly.

  She was shivering now, her whole body quivering with the effort of trying to keep warm. Her eyes narrowed on him fiercely. ‘I told you I was cold.’

  He glared down at her, guilt flooding through his chest. ‘I thought you were...’ Was this what his behaviour had been reduced to, after all these years of battling? A husk of a man, incapable of understanding others’ needs, so wrapped up in his own self-pity and loathing that other people, other women, meant nothing to him?

  ‘You thought I was pretending.’ Cecily’s voice was muted. ‘You can put me down now.’

  Removing his arm from beneath her hips, he allowed her legs to slide to the ground. ‘I was wrong.’ In the twilight, his eyes glowed over her.

  Her feet were numb, unresponsive blocks, and she was forced to clutch his upper arm for a moment to regain her balance. ‘We need to find shelter. I cannot go on like this.’ Hopping from one foot to the other, trying to drive out the cold, she folded her arms rigidly across her chest.

  ‘Tie the chit to her horse, my lord, and then we can continue!’ one of the knights shouted out. He nudged his companion, who laughed. They had dismounted up ahead; one of them had stepped forward to take the bridle of her horse.

  What? Was she to be slung over the saddle like a sack of grain? Cecily’s cheeks flamed and she lifted her emerald gaze to Lachlan. ‘You dare...’ she whispered.

  Sparkles of sleet clung to Lachlan’s cheeks, giving him an otherworldly appearance, shimmering in the half-light. ‘Have no fear, Cecily, I’ve no intention of doing anything like that.’ He cast his gaze about him, to the shadows of evening closing around them, to the treetops blowing wildly in the wind and the valley below, caught in a low-lying, icy fog. ‘We will find somewhere. But you’re not going back on your horse. You can ride with me.’

  ‘I will not.’ Cecily pushed away from him, teetering on the frozen lumps of her feet. Her lips pursed, a mutinous line. ‘I will ride my own horse.’

  Lachlan stroked his palm down the side of his horse’s head. The animal’s nose wrinkled, appreciative of his master’s touch. ‘I am not going waste time arguing with you, Cecily. We are all cold and tired and in need of rest. You are in no fit state to ride. I will put you on my horse, one way or another. You can make this as difficult or as easy as you like. Which is it to be?’

  Cecily. Was it the first time he had called her thus? Her name echoed strangely from his lips, caught in the slight inflection of his accent. An accent that spoke of the far north, of windswept cliffs and a raw, rugged landscape. A landscape that suited him.

  ‘I suppose I have no choice.’ She tipped her head back to look at him. Her hood had dislodged with her fall; the cut on her forehead had scabbed over, flowering into a bluish bruise along her hairline.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Lachlan replied calmly. ‘You can ride in front of me.’

  Hands planted about her waist, he lifted her up to his saddle. She swept one leg over the horse’s neck so she could ride astride, spreading her skirts. The sodden material hung in great swags around the horse’s neck. In a moment, Lachlan was behind her, vaulting on to his horse with a speed that left her breathless. His chest knocked against her spine, his hips cradled hers, and she gasped at the sudden intimacy, crouching forward.

  ‘Nay, lean back,’ he said. ‘It will be too awkward to ride with you pitching forward like that.’

  ‘But...’ Her body hummed with his closeness, every nerve ending tingling with a sudden, flooding expectation. ‘You’re too...too near me!’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no other way.’ She jumped as his hot breath caressed the lobe of her ear, her jawline. ‘Surely you rode like this with your husband sometimes?’

  ‘You are not my husband,’ she replied grimly. She flushed, a great heat climbing through her cheeks, Lachlan’s solid thighs pressing into her legs through her skirts.

  ‘Thank Christ.’ Lachlan’s voice rumbled above her ear. ‘Being married to a chit like you would be hard work. Argumentative. Stubborn. Always wanting your own way.’

  She flinched at his words, staring stonily ahead. ‘Aye, you have it right, Lachlan. That’s exactly what my husband told me, too. But he liked the large dowry I brought with me, so there was some compensation for my behaviour.’

  Annoyance flecked her tone. But he heard the note of anguish, too. Guilt flooded through him. Why had he said such things to her? He hadn’t meant to be deliberately nasty; he had thought to be more teasing than that. But he had obviously hit a nerve and she had taken his words to heart.

  The sleet was falling more heavily now. ‘Move back,’ he ordered her. She leaned tentatively against the strong pliancy of Lachlan’s chest, the breath squeezing from her lungs.

  ‘That’s better,’ he murmured. He placed a firm hand on her belly, winching her even closer to him. The possessive gesture sent a flood of intimacy pulsing through her blood, her veins, pushed every nerve ending to a tingling, almost unbearable, awareness. Was this what it was like to have a man hold you safe, to take care of you? Her body craved Lachlan’s touch, savoured it. She took pleasure from being near him and yet he was completely unaware. She closed her eyes in shame.

  Chapter Nine

  The younger knight spotted the dilapidated barn through the trees, the roof drooping precariously to one side. Bright green moss spangled the oak shingles. With a shout of glee, he spurred his horse onwards through the spindly trunks, then jumped down. He peered through the wide, open entrance, a roughly hewn piece of oak forming the low lintel above his head. ‘It’s dry inside, my lord,’ he shouted back to Lachlan. ‘There’s a stack of hay and some wood to light a fire.’

  A great shudder rose in Cecily’s chest. The feeling of relief. Slumped back against Lachlan, his strong fingers splayed across her middle, holding her secure, she wasn’t certain how much longer she could have carried on. She was cold, but also exhausted from trying to hold herself away from him. Every time she bumped back against him, excitement sparked her chest, and, God forgive her, her belly and loins. She needed to peel herself away from him, regain some sanity, some sense of equilibrium. A place where she could gather her scattered thoughts.

  The evening darkened to night. The falling sleet turned to snow, great fat flakes spinning lazily to the ground. The branches, hanging low, were dusted with white, sparkling, ethereal. Lachlan pulled on the reins; the firm, rounded muscle in his upper arms squeezed tightly around her shoulders. His horse swung to a stop in front of the barn. Lord Simon’s knights were already inside, sparks striking upwards in the gloom as they started a fire. Smoke billowed out, puffing fitfully, before being sucked up by a hole in the roof that acted as a makeshift chimney.

  ‘This will do for tonight.’ The comforting cage of Lachlan’s arms fell away and he leaned forward to dismount, his solid chest pushing heavily against her back. The heat from his body left her suddenly; Cecily shivered, feeling strangely bereft. She shook her head. This was not right. Where was the woman who managed the vast estates at Okeforde gone? Her incisive logical brain, the one that made clear, precise decisions, that never wavered—where had that gone? Lachlan had turned her world upside down; her mind and body were struggling to cope.

  She tried to find the energy to dismount. Something that she had done a thousand times before. Feather-light flakes of snow landed on her eyelids, her cheeks, chill kisses that melted swiftly. Cecily rubbed the snow from her eyes, as if focusing more clearly would give her the physical power to dismount.

  Lachlan stood on the ground beside her, one hand splayed across the animal’s neck. The snow had set
tled on the dark blue wool of his cloak, dusting the vivid brightness of his hair. ‘Shall I help you down?’ His eyes shone out, brilliant sapphires in the gloom.

  Cecily bit down desperately on her bottom lip. ‘I... I can do it.’ Go away, she wanted to shout at him. Why did he make her feel so vulnerable? She had told him she was used to looking after herself, so why couldn’t she do it now? She needed some time, time to unfreeze her limbs.

  ‘Can you?’

  Cecily slumped forward, crunching her frozen hands into small fists on the horse’s neck. ‘No,’ she admitted, staring at him helplessly. ‘I think... I think I’m too cold.’

  Lachlan lifted his arms and grabbed her waist, pulling her from the saddle. She collapsed rigidly against him, unable to put her hands out to keep some distance between their bodies. Their cheeks collided, cheekbones knocking together, and she caught the heady scent of him, fresh, invigorating. Sensual.

  Her heart stalled. ‘Oh, God, sorry!’ Her cheek burned on the spot where she had banged against him. ‘I can’t seem to...’

  ‘Stop apologising,’ Lachlan said softly. ‘It’s my fault you’re like this. I didn’t listen. Can you walk?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can.’

  Lachlan kept one arm about her waist to support her and she gritted her teeth, forcing her numb legs and feet to move forward, to walk towards the barn. Inside, the interior was dim, shadowy. Hay bales were stacked up all around, filling the air with the luscious smell of mown grass, dried in the hot summer sun. The knights sat cross-legged on the packed earth floor by the fire, the flames casting a glowing circle around them.

  ‘Wait here,’ Lachlan said. ‘I’ll fetch a blanket from my horse.’ He ducked back out through the archway.

  Cecily stood silently, cheeks smarting with the cold, aware that Lord Simon’s knights both watched her intently. Unnerved, her fingers reached for one long curling end of her plaits, twisting the glossy hair round and round.